It had been a long day, and I was tired.
As I lay down in bed, fully appreciating the softness of my pillow, I heard something.
A little bit of rustling.
For half a moment I tried to believe it was just one of the girls rolling over in her sleep, holding my breath for the expected silence of a sleeping household to return.
But it didn't.
I pulled my weary body back out of my cozy bed and took a peak into my children's bedroom.
Adrianna was sitting on her bed looking at books.
She was thoroughly covered in diaper cream.
Kristina did this to me too, although she had been a year younger than Adrianna is at the time, so I had a good idea about how much of a pain it was going to be to take off.
Diaper cream, for those of you unfamiliar with the substance (the all four of you reading this who don't have kids), is effective in part for its skin sticking and water repelling properties.
And I have yet to figure how to get it out of hair in any sort of timely manner, as shampoo does not work nearly as well as one might hope.
[note to self: try dish soap]
So instead of caressing my sweet pillow with my unconscious head and a little dabble of drool, I got to give Adrianna her second bath of the night with much rigorous scrubbing in an attempt to make her not-completey-covered-in-diaper-cream for school in the morning.
(I know, I set such ridiculously high standards on my children's appearance, probably giving them a complex for life about having their faces liberally covered in white gooey paste.)
But on the bright side, her face is definitely diaper rash free. As is her nightgown. And bed. And hands. And doll. And books...